Time is a construct, seeming intelligent,
marked by decay and atrophy, the shortest
distance between two differing vantage points.
Measured as the distance of an angel's
wing span, divided by the stretch of
an invisible God, ticking off the birth
and death of stars, a million orbits
'round the nucleus of an atom.
Subtract the devils on a pin's thin head,
the square root of sands forced through
the glass, the miles of souls laid brow to
toe 'til they reach the end of celestial journeys.
And time is a construct , a meaningless measure.
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